


Words Can Express

by Xrea354



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: AU where Spot is shorter than Race because of reasons, And I have a lot done, And with that word I'll write stuff, Angst, But more fluff than angst, Canon Era, Fluff, I'd love it, I'm desperate for feedback, It doesn't even have to be nice, M/M, The rest depends on comment prompts, because each chapter is based on a word, it's pretty cool, read this, tell me I fucking suck, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2018-10-11 11:01:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10463394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xrea354/pseuds/Xrea354
Summary: Each chapter title is a word. Each chapter is under 1000 words. Some barely cut it, and others are very, very safe inside that margin. The following chapter pertains to the word and is written based on Newsies. Comment to get a chapter after a word you like, or feel would be fitting. The story itself is in the same world and it set in Post Strike New York, although it has a lot of flashbacks.





	1. Rumors

They call Spot Conlon The King of Brooklyn. At 16 young years, he is famous amongst all the newsies’ districts of New York, not just the one he’s ruling over. And as with all fame, Spot’s comes with rumors, stories, and tales that might once have been true, but now embellished to the point of being unrecognizable.

Spot takes them in stride, because the rumors are far better than the truth.

The first, the one that began the day he became King, was how he acquired his name. Everyone believes the same thing. Everyone but the few who remember the moment. And the one person he’s told.

Spot Conlon earned his name through blood, is what is said. He walked into the Brooklyn lodgings as a 7 year old orphan, and immediately fought a boy for nothing more than a bottom bunk. Yet, everyone thinks the real reason he fought the older kid was to show dominance. Even at 7, they say, Spot Conlon was meant to be King. It is told that during that first fight, Spot broke the 15 year old’s nose without breaking a sweat himself. Even at 7 years old Spot Conlon was a force to be reckoned with. And the story says that he was given his name that same night after he covered the older boy in spots.

The real tale is a sob story. A story that if ever spread would lose him respect, and threaten his place as King. He can’t let anything threaten his place as King, too many people look up to him, count on him day and night. He has too many people who’ll die without him.

The real story starts like this. A kid. 6 years old instead of 7. He had a home, where he slept. A home where his parents could afford high class suits and custom gowns. A home with money, and clothing, a bed and food to eat. A home that sent him to school, where he learned to read and write in the one year he stayed. A home he felt he didn’t deserve to complain about.

A home where he was unhappy, scared. Where he was terrified of large hands deftly landing on his shoulder- stopping his breath as he braced himself for blows. Where he waited for fat fingers to dig into his skinny arms and toss him into sturdy, expensive furniture that never once broke under his sudden weight. Where harsh words would sound in his ears before every single violent connection.

Sean Conlon knew fear. He was afraid of nimble fingers holding a cigarette next to him as he readied himself for the inevitable burn on the base of his neck. And a sneer that delicate yet hateful words effortlessly flowed from in a constant stream. Warning him of his own shortcomings, and how he was doomed before he was born. Whispered hate into his ears as those same nimble fingers reached for smoke after smoke. He was horrified of home, and he vowed to never have one again.

So he ran away from it, after a particularly bad night. A night that rained so much the streets and alleyways were completely flooded. A night where he can barely see out of one eye, let alone two. Where he can only feel one arm loosely hanging, dislocated, by his side. The fresh burns on his neck were soothed in the pouring rain. Where he limped through the deep water to the Brooklyn lodging and payed for a bed using money he stole from his mother’s purse.

And when he walks in the room, dripping wet holding an extra pair of soaked through clothing under his arms, and looking like a dead man, he can’t blame the boy’s who stare. The best part of the lodging is that it doesn’t feel like home.

After a brief episode of silence where he drops his clothes on a bed-his bed, and peels of his boots. Another boy then asked him if he’s going to sell papes. It took him a moment, but he whispered that he would sure as hell try. And after relocating his shoulder for him, they call him Spot. On the account that his body is more black and blue than anything else.

It bothers him at first, being given a constant reminded of his past, and how it will always be right there behind him, ready to strike and devour him whole. Where spindly fingers latch onto his arm and a strong grip on his wrist pulls him too hard. They pull him home, and if that isn’t the stuff of nightmares he doesn’t think he know’s what is.

The name sticks though, and eventually Sean Conlon wears the new name like armor. And people forget the scared 6 year old, instead replacing him with the headstrong and fearless 10 year old. Then remembering the 12 year old who new how to fight better than anyone who ever picked a fight with him. Or his friends. They remember the terrifying and respected 15 year old who became King of Brooklyn. And when everyone knows that to become King, one must kill the previous one, rumors surface on how that was done as well.

It’s a miracle that no one knows the truth, a miracle Spot is grateful for.

For if one thing keeps his kingdom running- it’s not him, not his people, not the papes or mutual trust- it’s the rumors.


	2. Usurper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kingship of Brooklyn is not passed downed. It's earned. Spots not sure if earning it was what he did.

Spot Conlon was guilty. He also didn’t mean to become King of Brooklyn. And when it happened he barely understood what the title truly meant. He was feral, fifteen, covered in scrapes and blood that was mostly not his own.

He didn’t start that fight. A fact that surprises newcomers constantly. The fact that somebody actually, purposefully picked a fight with Spot Conlon was astounding, and unheard of. That that person was the previous King seemed ridiculous. The boy’s who do remember it call the fight unforgettable.

No one really knows how it started.  
The words that set the King to strike were a mystery.

They do know what it evolved into though. They do know that the previous King was cruel. And that he threw the first punch. They know because they saw it happen. They saw the fist collide with Spot’s ear. They saw him gather himself up off the pier’s wooden boards, and they saw his eyes cloud over, and they saw him raise his fists and fight.  
Spot Conlon, 15, slight frame, blood dripping from his ear, and fighting for his life.

They saw him gain the upperhand. They saw how desperate he was, not to win, but live. They saw him kill the king and stared at his heavy breathing form. On his knees. Slumped, dead tired, but not dead.

He broke the silence by promising to bury the motionless form in front of him. And then the newsies of Brooklyn named him King. At barely 15 years old. The youngest King to ever be crowned to date.

When he looks back at the moment, he feels the instant regret he felt while staring at the dead and blank face of the previous King, but now that he’s been King for more than a year, he finds he doesn’t regret much at all anymore. What was done, needed to be done.

No one knows how the fight started.

Spot plans to keep it that way.

It happened fast. Too fast for Spot to remember every second of it. It happened like this.

He was called up to talk to the King. A real douche. And he wasn’t that nervous, the King would probably tell him to move from one spot to another the next day. Spot had no doubt that he could deal with whatever needed to be addressed. Needless to say, he wasn’t exactly excited. And he wasn’t prepared to deal with the topic the King the brought up. Not really. Not at all.

The King told him some key information he gathered while selling near the Brooklyn bridge. It is in this moment that Spot starts to worry about exactly what knowledge the King might possess.

Said King built up this story about how he walked past the streets near the bridge to try and see how much traffic the area received. And then he beckoned Spot closer, and whispered that he thought he saw something very surprising on the walk. 

And it is in this moment that Spot knows what the other boy is going to say. The moment where Spot knows he’s been found out, knows that there doesn’t seem to be an out for him, knows that this is probably it for him. Then the other boy confirms Spot’s fears when he said he saw someone who looked awfully like Spot. Someone with the same suspenders, same cane tucked in said suspenders, and same hat, sucking face with another boy in an alley a block or two from the Brooklyn fucking Bridge.

The panic previously mentioned overwhelmed his very veins, and when calmly asked if it was in fact him, he was in shock. It was then, in the midst of panic, that he did one of the stupidest things that could have been done in that single moment.  
He told the fucking truth.

The King muttered a few choice expletives under his breath, that for the record Spot did not appreciate. And then he threw a punch, the first punch, aimed directly at Spot’s ear. It knocked the fifteen year old to the wooden boards of the pier.  
The silence that dropped over the entire pier was miraculous. Forty Brooklyn newsies watched as Spot Conlon lay motionless on the boards at the feet of the King.

Spot himself laid there for no more than ten seconds. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and the first sign of life he gave was rolling over to spit it out in water. As he struggled to his feet, his head cleared, and with this new clarity came an idea. 

He had found his way out of this. Spot raised his fists and a sense of calm rushed over him. Because even though the situation was not ideal, fighting was something he knew how to do. Something he excelled at. Something he was much better at than the King.

And even though his main concern was surviving, he was almost just as desperate to keep his secret. To shut the King up for good.

He did.

And when someone screamed that the King was dead, another person shouted out the name Spot Conlon : King of Brooklyn.

As a new King, he didn’t want the job, but he grew into it. It only took a month and a half to turn Brooklyn into a paper selling machine. Making sure none of his people ever went hungry was surprisingly easy, given the previous state of hunger all the boys seemed to be in. His leadership shined through when looking out for the younger kids, and pairing them up with older kids to mentor them. And in turn pairing the older one’s up with young, adorable faces, that always seemed to sell papes faster.

A month and a half and all of his people viewed him as the best King they’ve ever had. Simultaneously respecting and fearing him. And knowing that Spot Conlon would always do what was best for Brooklyn.

It doesn’t scare him anymore, what he did, what he does, what he will do. He knows what he’s doing it for now. He’s doing it for Brooklyn, and his people, and for Race too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same deal. Leave a comment or kudos!


	3. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race has a problem

It’s not love. 

It can’t be. Race won’t allow it.

Love is reserved for family, some key friends, and a future girl. Love isn’t meant for the stupid boy he meets in Brooklyn after selling. It isn’t meant for fleeting moments that are seemingly few and far between. It isn’t meant for what he has.

Love should feel calming, like walking along a beach or staring up at the stars or even reading a really good pape that may or may not have his picture on it. It shouldn’t feel like the eye of a storm. Where everything could fall apart so easily. Where everything could be taken away and lost forever. 

Love is meant for declarations in front of friends and family. For telling everyone and their mother about how amazing it is. It’s suppose to be for people he can brag about to everybody else. People he can shout his affections to from the rooftops of the highest buildings in New York.   
Love is reserved for the people who love him back god dammit… reserved for people who are allowed to love him back. 

Race knows that. He tells it to himself everyday while selling papes. While smoking. While talking to his friends. While walking over the Brooklyn Bridge. While frantically colliding with an idiot in a dark alley.

He tells it to his reflection in the lodgings mirror when he’s fixing his hair and straightening his vest. Whispers that he is not trying to impress anyone, no sir.

He tells it to his friends, who always ask who the girl is that puts such a sheepish smile on his face. He tells his friends that it’s no one, just a friend, really. They don’t believe him. They say that smile and his particular brand of happiness is only on the faces of those in love. He tells them they’re wrong. He tells himself they’re wrong.

He tells himself that he’s not in love with Spot Conlon. 

Not in love with the boy from Brooklyn who he kisses in dark alleys and on quite rooftops. Because Brooklyn boys are tough, they have to be, but the Brooklyn King must have no weaknesses. He must be feared. And respected. And adored by his people. But not loved. Because love makes people weak. Love dictates decisions and sways priorities. So the King can’t be loved. Especially by Race. Who's not only of the male variety, but also not Brooklyn. Not really. 

He’s not in love with the boy who singlehandedly keeps hundreds of people alive and fed. Race doesn’t love Spot’s ability to keep every boy under his jurisdiction afloat. Making sure every kid, every newsie, every street-rat has a bed to sleep in and papes to sell. A feat that turned Brooklyn into a territory fiercely protective of their leader for one of the only times in memorable history. Possibly the only time in history.

He is not in love with the boy who he’s known since he was 7, and Spot was 6. When he wandered over the bridge for the first time and got so lost that a kid a year younger than him, who looked beaten to a pulp, took pity on his sorry soul. Sold with him the rest of the day and then walked him back to the bridge.

No, he’s not in love with the boy’s sharp edges, and fierce determination. Who takes care of his own so fearlessly, and with no regard for his own well-being, and never turns down a fight. Even when Race wishes Spot would for once think about his own health. Would look out for himself instead of everybody else.

He’s not in love with a boy who constantly acts like he doesn’t teach new kid’s the basic’s of selling papes. Not in love with someone who he knows is softer than all of New York believes him to be. Yet lives up to the persona like he was born to it, like if he was meant to do one thing, it was to be King. Race can’t love that boy. 

That boy… is not allowed to love him back. That boy is unable to love him. He has too much to do. Too much to plan. Too many people counting on his every move. Too much responsibility.

And Race could ruin it all. Spot has put Race in a place where Race could take down everything Spot has built. Brick by stupid brick. One word from Race, and it could all come crumbling down. And he’s not in love Spot because love is the worst thing that could happen to Spot Conlon. It could tear him to pieces. Granted, it would tear Race apart as well. 

So Race has officially decided that he will not love Spot Conlon. He won’t love Spot’s courage, or his determination. He won’t love his pride, nor his clarity when facing any breed of difficult situation. He won’t love his kindness, nor his crass nature. Race definitely won't love his patience or his smile or his eyes. He won’t love Spot Conlon. He doesn't love Spot Conlon.

It’s not love… so maybe it’s love. 

He can never say that it’s love. Because no matter what, Spot can't know. Because the outcome of that has the potential to be truly terrifying. If Spot knew Race loved him, he would do one of two things; Leave. Which would be world-shattering for Race. Or love him back. Which would be world-shattering for Spot. And Race knows deep in his heart that if ever found out, he'd rather the first happen, because he’ll always choose Spot. But deep in his heart, he knows that that reaction is the least likely of the two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, tell me I suck. Give me a word.


	4. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David has two newsie names. And this is mostly because I like the idea of everyone being really confused at what to call him. (Most settle for Davey).

There are three people Race trusts. Trusts with everything he has. And everything he’s ever been. Even if one is only due to circumstance at first.

He trusts Spot because he loves him. A fact he only recently accepted, when all he had previously done was deny. A fact that comes with the sneaking suspicion that he’s not the only one in love out of the two of them. Yet that feeling continues to only be a suspicion.

He trusts Jack because he knows that Race loves Spot. As of then, the only person to know that Race loves Spot. And because he’s the Manhattan leader. And because Jack is his closest friend.

He trusts Davey due to circumstance. Because of Jack. Because much like Race loves Spot, Jack loves Davey. But, more importantly, Jack trusts Davey. Eventually Race learns to enjoy Davey’s company. Eventually, his trust in Davey is not only due to Davey’s correlation to Jack, but just because he’s Davey.

He thinks the moment he finally starts to like Davey is when all the boys are together on the lodgings floor, bunk beds pushed to the edges of the room, guessing how each boy received their name, and asked who named them once the reason is revealed.

His name is easy to guess. The first kid gets it right. Race's name was bestowed upon him on account of a slight gambling problem, even at 5 years old. He tells everyone how he didn’t get the name for two years while in the lodging house. That it only happened after everyone was well acquainted with the tiny gambler. He tells them he was named by another gambler. Whose name was Pick, due to his incredibly light fingers.

Jack’s surprises the younger kids, and everyone laughed at their fearless leader. See the younger kids kept guessing that Cowboy comes from something heroic or impressive. For example saving a girl from a robbers. Or the look he gets in his eyes before he does something both stupid and daring. But no. Jack got his name for accidentally tripping over a rope as he was trying to demonstrate how people would catch and herd cattle in Sante Fe. As well as the hat. That ridiculous hat was definitely part of it.

Davey though. Davey stumped everybody. And he looks kind of nervous as people continued guessing where both “Walking Mouth” and “Blue” came from. Because leave it to Davey to have two. Eventually someone gets “Walking Mouth” and Davey explains how it was the King of Brooklyn who named him that. A chorus of amazed young newsies “ooh” and “ahh”. Race smiled at the fact, and added Davey to the list of newsies named by Spot Conlon. As of then, with Davey, it was a grand total of 4.  
No one, on the other hand could guess “Blue”. A name he more recently recieved, but one that caught on quickly all the same. 

When someone finally said to just tell them, he freezed up for a second or two. And Race thought he was going to come up with a lie. Davey earned his respect and friendship indefinitely in that moment by telling the truth.

After a quick but pointed nod from Jack, he told the entire room that he was told it’s on the account of his eyes.  
And the entire room was silent. And then a kid no older than 7, called shortstop, broke the silence with a groan. He stated that Davey’s name wasn't fun because now they knew who named him too. 

And when questioned, he told everyone that no one but Jack would name him after his eyes, because Jack’s the only one who stares at Davey’s face enough. And then he huffed, and the room burst into good natured laughter. Friendly jabs aimed at the shocked Davey and Jack, who both looked at each other incredulously, before breaking out into grins and laughing with everyone else.

He trusts Davey because he’s braver than Race ever could be, and he shows Race that he can trust all his all his friends, because they don’t care, and they’re not only willing to keep a secret for Jack and Davey, they have been, without either Jack or Davey asking them. Proving that Race is able to trust a lot more people than three.  
But he can’t tell them everything, nobody knows everything. They can know about him, and even his affections, though he probably won’t advertise them, but Spot’s secrets are not his to tell. 

The truth would put him in too much danger. Because when a normal newsie is outed they could be soaked, or locked up or exiled, but Spot. Spot could be killed.

So Jack and Davey and the rest of them can know of him, and his efforts, and his affection, and even his love, but nothing more. Because even the most trustworthy can’t be trusted with certain information when it comes down to the ones you love.

Being with Spot, loving Spot, is worth every lie, and every obstacle and everything the world could throw at him. Because if there’s one person he can trust with everything. With his future and his heart and his life… that someone would be Spot Conlon. 

He should tell Spot that he loves him, eventually. But that would take a lot of courage, so he settles for something else. Something that would probably mean more to Spot anyway. Race will tell Spot that he trusts him. And Spot will know what he means. Race trusts that, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same Spiel. Comment a word. I'll try my best. I've filled two of the words already, and am working on the third. I think I'm gonna switch up the order of the next few chapters too, so everyone whose put in a prompt might see there's sooner than expected.


	5. Halcyon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack looks back. But mostly forward.

Here’s the thing about Jack. He was never content. He continuously expected that he never would be. Jack's long since accepted that fact. He constantly fantasized of some made up future in some out of reach town with some imaginary family. With that in their head, no one could really be happy.

So Jack wasn’t happy, he didn’t need to be. He needed to survive, to eat, to sell papes, to lead Manhattan. He didn’t need to be content. He didn’t need to remember any Halcyon days that have since come and past… so he didn’t. He didn't have any, anyway. And he was okay with that. He had made his peace with that. And he decided dreams of better places would always be a part of him.

And then the strike happened. And being a newsie seemed like the only thing worth fighting for. Which had never happened before.

But it was more than that, because even before the strike, before Pulitzer hiked the prices, his head was spun and his feet tripped over themselves all because of Davey Jacobs.

The first time Jack met Davey, he almost fell head over heels. Mostly because he ran into him. When questioned about his impromptu collision, he gleefully replied with, “Runnin’”, because Jack is nothing if not polite to complete strangers. Especially if they look like Davey.

That’s also probably why he offered to sell with him as well.

It’s not until after dinner at the Jacob’s that Jack realized what was going on with himself. And it's after dinner at the Jacobs’ when he decided to inherently deny it.

And it’s underneath the Jacobs fire escape that he tried to desperately remember his dream of Sante Fe. For a while, he succeeded. And he convinced himself he doesn't want what the Jacobs have, no. He wants something better. Something more. He wants Santa Fe.

But when the strike started Davey isn't just some kid he sells papes with anymore, he’s Davey. Jack’s friend. And it was because of Davey, and his other friends that Jack fought. He fought for them. All the while denying the fact that friendship may not be what he wants from Davey.

And then everything ended. They threatened Davey. They threatened Davey and Jack crumbled. He broke. And he knew that this was the end of the strike for him. He knew what he had to do. He knew it would hurt. He knew he’d do it anyway.

Then Davey showed up. Escape plan well thought through, running down alleyways, and following a route he had to have planned in the past, but he didn't understand. He didn't understand that Jack couldn't let him get hurt. He didn't understand that Jack worries about what would happen to Davey’s family without Davey there. And Davey argued with him, which made Jack want to scream at him. To tell him that he's more. That he's everything.

So he told Davey to go, because it's the only way to keep everyone safe.

And it was there, alone in an alley that Jack accepted the fact that he had a new Sante Fe. His name was Davey. 

So Jack’s new dream was a farfetched and quite frankly illegal relationship with another boy who not only didn't see him that way, but hated him. But it was okay.

Jack was okay with not being content. All his friends hated him, yes, but all his friends were safe. And he was gonna be fine. And they were gonna be fine.

But then they weren’t. And it hurt. And the worst part, the worst part was that Davey tries to see the good in him until the very end. 

Davey Jacobs had a breaking point, though, and Jack resented the fact that it was him who pushed Davey to it. He couldn't regret his decision though. It was made to protect his friends.

Jack was proud of himself. He was proud of his sacrifice. Until Davey was hurt. Then all he really felt was shame. Because as he fought the Delanceys he couldn’t really be proud of his actions, he’s the reason Davey was a part of it all in the first place. He blamed himself, but Davey, Davey didn't. 

When Sarah and Les left, Davey hugged him, which effectively made Jack cry. And Davey’s grip was too tight. And tears were getting on Jack's shirt. And Jack didn't know if he could support Davey's body weight for longer than he did. And Jack had no clue how he could have imagined giving that up. 

And it was in the happiness of that moment, in that hug, that Jack Kelly tilted his chin down, and kissed the top of Davey Jacobs’ head.

Then that moment froze. Slowly, Davey’s head came up, and his gaze met Jack’s. Inside his head, Jack Kelly panicked. Alarms were going off.  
Red lights were flashing. All coherent thoughts ran to the nearest exit.

Jack was stuttering out an apology when Davey kissed him the first time.

Time didn't stop that time. It kept moving. It moved as Jack let himself be lightly pushed to the wall. It moved as Jack placed both his hands on Davey’s jaw, framing Davey's face with his thumbs. It moved as Davey shifted his hands to Jack’s waist. It moved as Davey broke the kiss to rest his head on Jack's chest. 

And it moved when they decide they need to push the strike further with one decisive blow to Pulitzer and his pride.

Jack decided then that when all was said and done, when he's old and grey, Davey would be beside him. And so will all his friends. And for once in all his life, he felt like he’d be able to look back on halcyon days. Because from there on out, everything seemed a bit brighter. He no longer felt alone. For once in all his life he was undeniably happy and content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill by now.


	6. Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot Conlon is worried for. This chapter is real Spot centric, but it does have some quality sprace in there.

Lots of people worry about Spot Conlon. Mostly his people. The newsies of Brooklyn. They all believe he’s the best King Brooklyn’s ever had. The toughest King. The one with the most rules, yes, but rules that benefit them, and keep them fed and warm. 

He leaves no newsie behind, not even the one’s who can’t buy papes to sell themselves. The ones fresh out on the streets. The ones without shoes selling in the same spot every day, somehow, miraculously, with the day’s papes in hand yelling headlines as a slight form turns down a street to head to his normal selling grounds. And he’s only holding 100 of the 200 papes he buys every morning. His profit based mostly on his ability to get people to pay extra.

His people worry about his successor. Who it will be, how it will go down, and they hope it never happens. They hope Spot Conlon will be the first King to retire. They worry about Spot getting himself killed for them, for as much as he gripes about Brooklyn boys taking care of themselves, they know if he’s around he’ll be throwing just as many punches, and jumping in front of all the blows he can manage. Spot Conlon is good for Brooklyn. He's what they needed, and what they will need. 

They worry about the young King being picked off at any time of day. Each newsie being extra precautious of even each other at times. Because nobody is as good as leading as Spot is. They can't take the chances it would take to not worry. Without them worrying, Spot could be in danger. That can't happen.

There’s a point where he’s not even considered just the King of Brooklyn, but Brooklyn itself. Because his people know that all the loyalty they give to Spot, is returned ten-fold, which makes them wary of anyone and everyone who crosses the Brooklyn border. Unwelcoming of new faces and cautious of old ones.

Everyone except Race. Because they know Race worries about Spot too. Honorary Brooklyn, they call him. Never to his face though, it would go to his head. And Race could never really be anything but Manhattan.

It’s an unspoken rule that Spot can never know they worry about him. He’s harsh, and tough, and he’ll look at it as them seeing him as weak. When they really just see him as needed, and as loved.

Lots of people worry about Spot. And they worry about him a lot, because he does a lot of worrisome things. They worry about him when he disappears walking Race home in the middle of the Manhattan night. They worry when he sells papes alone, like only a few Brooklyn newsies do. They worry when he goes out into the borough with only a cane as a weapon, when he himself makes sure every Brooklyn newsie is armed with knives to protect themselves.

They worry with other newsies too. They mostly worry with Manhattan. Which isn’t as weird as it seems.

Because Racetrack is Manhattan. And Spot and Race grew up best friends. Despite the difference in borough. And even though everyone knows they stopped selling together years ago, they meet almost everyday. 

And they know that Race worries about Spot mostly through actions. They can see it in his eyes when he scans a street that the two of them are walking on, the Brooklyn newsies always nodding when Race notices them. When Race smiles at the realization that they’re there to protect the King. In the way he moves card games from the edge of the pier to the middle. In the way he looks wary at Spot every time he stands on a large crate, or too close to something the slightest bit dangerous. It's almost funny. Because Brooklyn newsies know that Spot can handle tall crates and a little water, but that doesn't stop Race at all.

So Brooklyn and Manhattan worry about Spot Conlon, and he’s got no idea. He’s none the wiser when Race asks Spot’s people to look after him, and he doesn’t hear when they repeat the sentiment back to Race.

Spot doesn’t know that the leader of Manhattan, Jack Kelly, worries about him. Doesn’t know that all of Manhattan is rooting for him to reciprocate feelings for Race. Because even though Race doesn’t tell them. They can tell who Race is going to see almost everyday after selling at Sheepshead. 

And they worry. Hoping that he stays alive, for Race’s sake if nothing else.

Spot doesn’t know that all the people he worries about, worry about him. 

Because a King has never lasted in Brooklyn. Then again, Brooklyn never had a King like Spot Conlon. A King people care about keeping. A King that people worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment a word. Leave me some feedback. Push the kudos button, I'm not picky.


	7. Kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Spot's got this weakness for kids. Which for our sake, is pretty awesome.  
> P

Spot has this weakness for kids. 

It’s always been there. Even when he himself was a small child. It started his first week as a newsie. His first day alone, really. After he was trained for a day, and sent off into Brooklyn alone, beaten, but excited. He walked to his selling ground, still freshly Spotted, and it only took an hour to get half his stack gone. A feat impressive for a new kid on their first day without a seasoned mentor. Granted he did look like a train hit him, and he’d been working on his pout, so those things might have aided in his endevour.

He had 25 papes left when he noticed another boy. He had more papes left than Spot, but not many. What made Spot go up to the other kid was the lost and almost scared look in his eye. No Brooklyn newsie would dare look even close to scared unless threatened by the King. An unspoken rule Spot had come to know in his first few hours in the lodging house. Which means this kid wasn't Brooklyn. 

Spot knew he was suppose to beat up on anyone who crosses the Brooklyn line. But he was still pretty sore, and he was not as prone to violence given his circumstances. Yet.

So he settled for walking over quietly and slipping next to the boy, who was just slightly taller than him. A fact that only bothered him a little bit.

He asked the boy what he was doing in Brooklyn, and said boy visibly jumped in alarm. In his shock he rapidly backed away, and held his fists up in defense. His form was wrong, and if he punched someone with his own thumb in his fist, his thumb would break. If he took one more step back, he'd trip over a rather large rock that Spot thought had no business being in the road.

The kid asked if Spot was a Brooklyn newsie. Spot chuckled because the question meant something like, “Am I about to die?” 

So Spot assured the other kid that it’s okay, and asks if it looks as if he could beat the taller kid in a fight given his appearance as of that moment.

The kid visibly relaxed. Then, without seeming to miss a beat, asked Spot’s name after informing Spot that his own was Race, very proudly. Spot concluded he had only just recently recieved it. When Spot replied Race looked him up and down and told him the name fit. Spot told Race that he knew. 

Then Spot suggested they sell the rest of their papes, and then he’d lead Race to the bridge. Race agreed to the suggestion with a blinding smile.

So they sold the rest of their papes with ease, utilizing both their combined cuteness, as well as Spot’s less than ideal state of bruising. It worked like a charm.

As Spot walked Race towards the bridge they banter. Somewhere during the conversation Spot found out Race is Manhattan, and 7 years old compared to his 6. Race’s arm ended up on Spot’s shoulder and when they got to the bridge Race does something that Spot never expected. He hugged him. Spot had never been hugged.

It was over quickly, and even though it kind of hurt, given his almost(read, mostly) broken form, he liked it. And he wanted it to happen again.

Now, as King of Brooklyn. He looks after all the Brooklyn street rats. Especially the younger ones. He has 30 kids less than 8 under his jurisdiction. 

Each one assigned to an older kid, in order to keep them from getting lost or worse. Because there's always worse in Brooklyn, he would know.

The kids love him. They also get away with a lot.   
For example, randomly hugging him, and asking him questions when he’s suppose to be alone. And interrupting his answers with even more questions. But they get away with it all the same. Which is most likely why he's loved. On good days he’ll put them up on his shoulders when they ask enough.

And it's simple. That's why Spot thinks he likes kids. They're simple. There's no politics, no quiet, no sadness. No knowledge about the world or its cruelty. And he wouldn't have it any other way. Hell, he’ll protect them from the world for as long as he can.

Another reason to support kids being kids is that he never really got to be one himself. And he's come to the realization that not many newsies do. So he lets them be kids. And if that means judging jumping competitions off the pier so be it. If it means answering 13 questions at once, he can do it. If that means running around with a seven year old on his shoulders, well, then that's what he'll do. 

As the King of Brooklyn, Spot has a lot of responsibilities to manage, and making sure kids can be kids… that's one of his top priorities.

Some of his people are wary about how it’ll look to someone trying to hurt him. And Spot can’t blame them. He can't, because he gets it. 

He gets that it's dangerous for him. He's reminded of the danger every day. Reminded by his people. Reminded by his friends. Reminded by Race. But none of that is about to stop him. Him stopping would break the heart of at least 30 kids. And dammit, he can't do that at all. So Spot understands the circumstance. So he makes up for it. He… compensates. That's really all they can ask of him.

Spot makes up for it by never losing a fight, and perfecting the glare that shoots fear into onlookers. The same glare that fails to become any less threatening with a 7 year old smiling on his shoulders, wildly waving his arms at his friends who run around Spot’s legs, waiting for their turn to feel like a King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, I don't even know. I'd kill for feedback my dudes.


	8. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything starts somewhere. Yet one beginning doesn't do justice to a story.

The first time they met, they were kids. Race was lost. Spot was there, and coincidentally not lost. Spot walked Race to the Brooklyn Bridge. That’s the story. The one that’s told anyway. For some reason they never tell anyone else about the hug. Spot’s first hug, on that first day. Maybe it’s because Race freaked out for hours afterward because, _what was I thinking?_ Maybe it’s because Spot wanted the moment to be completely and utterly his. Maybe the reasons don’t matter. Because the most important thing about that night, is that it was the beginning. It was _their_ beginning.

That wasn’t the only beginning they faced together, though. It was only one of many. Though, there were a few noteworthy ones….

The first time Spot got into a fight with someone. He won. Barely. He got more than he gave, but his punches landed harder, and his stance was better balanced, and unlike his opponent he could take a fucking beating in stride. Pain was not so much kind as familiar. The fact that it in only bloomed mutedly, due to the adrenaline violently coursing through his body was a plus. 

It was on Race’s behalf, too. Which made it worth it to Spot. Which made his swollen cheek and split-lip seem like a prize. It made Spot tilt his molted chin towards the sky, as if daring the universe to go another round. 

Race did not agree with that viewpoint. 

Spot got in many more fights after that. Surprisingly, not all of them involving Race. 

The first time Race fought someone, it didn’t end as well. Actually it ended terribly, with him beat pretty bad. But Race stands by that fight, because it was in defence of Spot. Or maybe himself. Probably the both of them.

The King of Brooklyn at the time didn’t like Race crossing the border. Sent a kid to rough up him and possibly Spot when they were selling. Race was 10. Spot was 9. And yeah, Race realized Spot was the better fighter, but it didn’t stop him from dropping a dime in the younger boy’s hand, and asking Spot to get him hot dog when he noticed a real shady prick had been following them.  
Race put up somewhat of a fight, too. His punches were strong, but lacked accuracy. His stance was stable, but too stiff. And he no experience, which really didn’t bode well at the time. It was his first after all. It might have been his last if Spot hadn’t shown up. 

Spot Conlon, 9 years old, but filled with fury. A large hot dog discarded on the streets behind him. The other guy had at least 4 years on Spot, but he took him down. And he made it look easy. Later, Race would claim that he, himself did most of the work. And Spot just finished him off. They both knew that it was partly true, but that meant it was partly false. 

Afterwards, Spot had turned to Race, and any anger he felt melted into worry. And then anger again once Race reassured Spot that, _I can take a hit just fine, Conlon_.

A lie that led to the first time Spot challenged a King. He practically dragged the offender to end of the pier and dropped him unceremoniously at the King’s feet. 

He stared at the older boy, the King, 16, and so very new to power. And he told the older boy that the next one wouldn’t come back as pretty.

Which leads to the first time Spot is a second in command at 10 years old. The King was impressed. So impressed, he let Race sell with Spot, and under a year after the confrontation, Spot was offered a position of power. Which led to even more firsts.

The first time Spot taught Race to fight. The first time Race won a fight. 

The first time Spot almost died. At 13. When the King of four years is finally killed, and his second tried to protect him.

Which led to the first time Spot, bloody and beaten, spent the night in Manhattan. An act he had never even considered before. An act that felt too much like trespassing. That is, until it didn’t.  
Because that led to the first time Race introduced Spot to the Manhattan boys. And really, they were almost too welcoming. It’s nothing like Brooklyn, there. And Spot found that he missed it. Because he was Brooklyn. Which is he headed to the roof, in the middle of the night, to try and catch sight of his borough. Race followed him.

Which led to Race and Spot’s first kiss. It’s not a great kiss. It might be because it’s a first for both of them. And it leads to the first time Spot felt at home since….

Which led to the first time Spot ignored Race, and headed back to Brooklyn.

Then came the first time Spot Conlon realized he was an idiot. And Race wasn’t that house. Or those people. Or his scars. Race was a different kind of home. A better kind. 

So, the first time Spot apologizes to Race is surprising. At least to Race. He showed up at the Manhattan lodging house at 13 years old, soaking wet, because of course it was fucking raining, and he told Race everything. Everything that mattered, anyway. And they don’t kiss that night. Because they were both a mess. But they hugged, which was comfortable if nothing else. It shouldn’t have been as monumental as it was. But Race clung to Spot tighter than he ever had before. And Spot buried his face in Race’s shoulder.

And even though they had hugged in the past, that hug, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the rain, and in the middle of that Manhattan street had felt like a whole new beginning to them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really late for a few reasons  
> \- I'm not entirely happy about how it turned out.  
> \- School has been thoroughly kicking my ass.  
> \- I'm in the preliminary stages of writing an original novel for a Senior graduation requirement next year.  
>  so I apologize for any delay's in the future, but know that I've not abandoned this. I will continue. And finish it.


	9. Macabre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some angst-ish stuff. But it's all good, bc you already know that it doesn't end where this particular chapter does.
> 
> For a chapter about the word Macabre, I sure do mention light a lot.

There’s no sugar-coating this. This is bad. This is bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. 

Well, it has the potential to get that bad. Very bad. End of the line bad. Race knows it. He’s lived on this world for 14 years and this is possibly the worst thing to happen to him. He has _Feelings_. With the capital F and everything. 

And it’s not even for some girl, no. Because that would be far too easy. Because girls are great. Girls are beautiful. Every girl he knows has a bright smile and even brighter eyes. But so does Spot Conlon. And there lies Race’s problem. Because right now, literally right in front of him, Spot Conlon is smiling. And his nose is scrunched up and he’s just finished laughing at a joke that someone made and Race doesn’t even know who said what because Spot is right there looking like that. Race almost dies right there when Spot turns to him and quirks one eyebrow before dissolving into laughter again. And he just, Race knows that this is no good. That it is bad. Bad. Bad.

Because even if he thinks he’d be perfectly content looking at that smile forever, it really isn’t realistic. For one, it’s illegal. People get locked up for that. Boys get killed for that. And that’s only if he gets that far. Because reason two is that he’s never seen Spot like anyone. And Race has known the boy for years. More than half his life. He’s his best friend for crying out loud. Race firmly believes that Spot would rather die than date anyone, let alone a boy. Let alone Race.

So there it is. Everything is bleak. Everything is bad. Everything is sad. But then Spot Conlon smiles, again. And for a moment, everything is him. The scene is not Macabre anymore. It’s calm and it’s happy and it’s bright and it’s him. And the circle of newsies is welcoming. The conversation is light. An older Brooklyn boy is regaling the younger boys in horror stories from the Refuge. Spot joins in with daring tales of his history in fisticuffs. Race even supplies his own exaggerated bedtime stories for the kids.  
Spot interrupts him when it happens. He was slightly exaggerating a story when Spot corrects him. He slides an arm over Races shoulder and tells the kids that there were not in fact ten bulls, but four. And Race did not fight all of them, but he kicked one in the shin and then ran for his life. The kids still seemed impressed though. Spot’s arm never left Race’s shoulder and that shouldn’t be a problem but suddenly it was. Because Race almost leaned into the touch. Which could lead to Spot finding out, which could lead to Spot leaving. Which could lead to so much more...

Race needs air. He needs space. He needs time. 

So he tells the boys he’s headed in early. If his heart skips a beat when Spot’s expression abruptly falls then that’s his problem. 

Once Spot is out of sight, everything is back to normal. Drab. Dark. _Safe_.

It’s a long walk back to Manhattan. A walk he rarely makes by himself. But he refused Spot’s offer to walk him to the bridge. And his heart didn’t break at the other boys crestfallen face thank you very much.

It is here, alone, that Race can finally assess the situation. 

He likes Spot Conlon. A boy who smiles like the sun. Like the sun, it would probably burn him if he got too close.

He wants to kiss Spot’s stupid face. The same face that he’s known since he was seven.

He can’t. 

Those are the facts. It’s that simple. 

Until it isn’t.

Because then it gets worse, more complex. Less than two weeks later and Spot shows up on the Manhattan lodging steps looking like death. It was something with the King being dead. But he needs to stay the night. So Race introduces him to the boys. They seem to hit it off, but Spot seems off. And when Race follows him to the roof they talk. And then Spot kisses Race. And then he leaves. He leaves right when Race is finally content with living in that bright light. Spot leaves Race and he takes his light with him.

The darkness is no longer what Race wants. To hell with safety.

He wants the burning inferno that comes with Spot Conlon’s smile. He wants light so harsh it blinds him. He wants all of Spots rough edges and his panic and his worry. Race wants to burn in his fire.

But he can’t have that. Spot doesn’t want that. It’s hard, but Race will always, without fail, respect what Spot wants.

So Racetrack Higgins retreats to the safety of the macabre. It doesn’t comfort him anymore, though. The darkness isn’t any darker. But it’s too dark, now. He’s starting to notice that there’s something incredibly lonely about the shadows.


	10. Affluent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. This one's pretty Davey centric.

Davey Jacobs had never thought of himself as wealthy. Hell, he was constantly reminded that he wasn’t. He wore the same three shirts and two slacks. He ate, but less, so his brother and sister could keep a regular diet. He never, in his life, had bought any object for himself. And he wasn’t the only person to notice his family’s less than ideal state of being. No, he wasn’t the only one by a long shot.

The other boys started noticing right away, but they didn’t care at first. In fact, from kindergarten to eighth grade, everyone was kind. They never talked to him, and he sat alone, but they were nice. At least in comparison.

Ninth grade is when the teasing started. The stealing. The stares. It was all really new, and he didn’t understand that it could get worse. Davey misses the simplicity of ninth grade as he ages. He figures it’s too hopeful to wish for everything to stop, so he just wishes for less.

Tenth grade is when it started getting violent. It took a lot of effort to hide injuries and avoid unneeded medical expenses. And Davey takes pride in that he’s never been to a doctor for an injury sustained during school, and that he’s now fairly adept in first-aid. 

Eleventh grade, well, in eleventh grade everything got much worse. The violence and teasing continued, yes, but this time it wasn’t just because he was poor. It was other aspects of himself as well. It was because he was Jewish. It was because he was too smart. It was because he was weak. It was because they thought he was… well, what he was. 

But then it stopped. And Davey is ashamed to admit that his father losing his job is the best thing to ever happen to him. 

Davey’s always been the poor kid, the scum, the punchline. It’s hard to look at himself as lucky, because he really wasn’t, not in a lot of ways. 

Then he became a newsie, and then he saw what he had, and everything there was still left to gain. He never felt more a part of a community than he did with the newsies. But with that community comes the full reality that he lives an affluent life. He has a home. He has an education. He has a family. 

It’s not hard for him to decide to let his view of family encompass all his new friends. And he decides that he’ll do anything to aid them. He used his background in education to teach the younger kids how to read. He gave his books to Blink and Mush because he knew they were starting up a community bookshelf in the lodging. Davey did everything in his power to give what little he had, to those who had even less. It’s not surprising that Davey dreaded the day that this new extended family would be taken away from him.

He finally has a place where he belongs. He can hardly believe it.

He also has Jack. Which is honestly mind-blowing. Another mind-blowing aspect of his life right now is where he is and what he’s doing. 

He’s talking to Race in the Manhattan lodging, while a very tired Jack Kelly is hanging off his shoulders. Race is laughing at something Jack did. And though Davey didn’t hear or see the joke, Race’s joy makes him smile. Something’s been bothering Race lately, and while Davey refuses to outright pry, he has a distinct feeling it’s got something to do with a certain Brooklyn monarch.

Jack is getting heavier by the minute, so he casually insinuates to Race that it might be time for bed for their fearless leader, and slowly walks Jack over to his bunk while Race chuckles behind them. As Jack settles under the cover he lazily grins at Davey and bids him goodnight. Just as Jack closes his eyes Davey looks around the lodging.

The younger kids are asleep around him. Race has started up a game of poker. And Boots punches him in the arm on his way to bed.

Davey gives one last glance at a now dead asleep Jack before making his way across the room to Race and watching the game play out. The few guys still playing are quiet, but intense, and Davey can tell that Race has this last game in the bag by his smile.

As Race collects the cards he tells Davey to get home before Les starts to worry. Davey pats the other boy’s shoulder on the way out and starts the short trek home. 

Despite Race’s warning, Davey takes his time on the walk home, and he smiles the whole way. He looks kind of like an idiot.

Davey Jacobs has often felt the weight of his own affluence around the other newsies, but right now he feels a completely different type of rich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry. school has been hell. I'm trying to do all the prompts now. Thanks for the wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment a word. Comment a compliment. Tell me I suck.  
> Or leave a kudos, I'm not picky. I have a lot written so any new words will come after chapter 7.


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